


Of Bubbles, Tailfins and Lollipops

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, First Time, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-22
Updated: 2008-05-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:31:40
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: When a hunt in Key-West goes horrible wrong, Dean struggles to save his brother from the (not so sinister) clutches of a giddy and slightly psychotic mermaid--before time runs out.





	1. Chapter 1 - It Starts with a Rune

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This is pure and undiluted crack; and is definitely not to be taken seriously. It's unbeta'd and my first attempt at fanfiction in years, so if you see any mistakes/have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them!
> 
> The first chapters are going to be rated PG-13 (for language and wincest-y hints/implications) but I promise you that it'll go up in the end!
> 
> Hope you find this as amusing to read as I did to write!

  
Author's notes: This chapter is just setting up for the rest of the story, so there's not too much action, explanation, intrigue, or (sadly) love yet.  


* * *

> When Dean had first heard that they’d be going to Key West, he’d been excited. It was Spring Break and all the beaches would be populated by college kids. There would be parties in all the bars and clubs, and of course for Dean that meant more then double the chances of scamming phone numbers off pretty, drunk coeds. Sam just rolled his eyes as his brother hopped into the Impala, gunning the engine and driving to Florida in record time (and managing somehow not to be pulled over by the cops.) They stopped in the first shabby motel they could find, the “Seashell” or something equally as stereotypical as that, neither of them remarked the name as they booked their room for the next few days (with two queens, thank you very much.)

> The first day in Key West went smoothly; they did their routine checks, snooping around in classified police records and obituaries for signs of the spook they were currently supposed to be hunting. Much to Dean’s dismay, and Sam’s joy, they never made it to the beach that day. When the sun set, bloody red, they were driving back to their hotel room. Dean bitched about the radio stations as he drove, and Sam tried to tune in something that would make his brother shut up. It apparently didn’t occur to either of the boys, most likely because they weren’t quite used to the scorching hot weather and had been sitting in an overly humid and slightly dank smelling office all day, to just put a damn cassette tape into the player and be done with it.

> “Tomorrow we’re _going_ to the beach,” Dean made his point absolutely clear by closing the door at the end of his sentence to punctuate it. Sam flopped down on his bed; long limbs sprawled lazily across the garish ocean themed bedspread. Dean snorted; his brother’s head was positioned in such a way that it looked like the great white printed on the top of the comforter was going to snap it off with its powerful jaws.

> “Tomorrow we’re going to find out what the hell is haunting this town, Dean.” Sam corrected, rolling onto his side. His hair flopped in his face, and Dean made a dismissive noise.

> “Yeah, at the beach.”

> “Dean…” Sam warned, drawing out the name in a patented Sam Winchester whine.

> “Just for an hour, please Sammy? We’re in Key _fucking_ West! You can even geek-out on your laptop if you want.” He rationalized, lying down on his own bed with a soft whump of shifting comforters. He was simply answered with a bitchface, and received no other words from Sam that night.

> Sam didn’t know how he had let Dean convince him into it, but it didn’t change the fact that he was currently sitting on a (stolen) beach blanket, wearing (stolen) swim shorts, tapping away on his (thankfully not stolen) laptop while Dean flirted shamelessly with a bikini wearing brunette who looked way too young for his 27 year old brother. He had dragged up a few files from the obituaries, comparing the three suspicious drownings that had occurred consecutively the week before. Sam hated water deaths in general. Both cases they had dealt with before had had casualties (and the first had shown a sensitive side of Dean that he hadn’t known existed—who knew cocky, self-righteous Dean Winchester would be good with kids?) that had shown that not everyone could be saved. Sam hated when people couldn’t be saved; hated seeing them hurt when he was around. But he almost hated seeing his brother flirting his ass off when there was work to be done more.

> “ _Ahem_ ,” he cleared his throat loudly, dragging a bit of phlegm to the front of his throat in the process. His brother glanced at him over his shoulder, but didn’t move until Sam made a much louder, much more irritated noise.

> “Fun-sucker,” Dean grouched as he sat down on the blanket beside his brother, spinning the laptop so he could check the research his brother had been doing for the past half-hour. “So, drownings again?”

> “Yep.”

> “Any ideas?”

> “Nope. Absolutely none. Though I’m sure had you been brainstorming with me instead of—“

> “I get it, I get it!” His brother interrupted, waving his hand in a fleeting gesture to silence his brother. Sam had half a mind to ignore this and just continue talking anyways, but he humoured Dean and stayed silent. “So we have three people dead in the last week. All of them on this beach, right?”

> “Why do you think I picked this one, jerk.”

> “Bitch,” Dean quickly shot back the customary response, “and no one around here’s seen anything. Wonderful.”

> “Half the people around here are drunk already, or high.” Sam deadpanned, “so even if they did see something, it’d probably be a bust. I say we come back after dark, since the bodies were all found on the shore in the morning, it’s safe to say that they died sometime during the night.”

> His brother agreed, then: “wanna go check out some cadavers?”

***

> The cadavers, it turned out, were a complete bust. There was only so much you could find out from a bloated corpse. And what you could find out, well, Sam and Dean already knew that much. Stowing the forged ID cards proclaiming them to be Dr’s Smithson and Brown from South Miami Hospital, Sam felt as if the daylight had been completely wasted. When he mentioned it, Dean perked up.

> “There’s only one way to end a wasted day. Well, besides checking out a haunted beach after the civs are all sleeping.” He said cheerily, waggling his eyebrows. Sam dreaded to know what his ‘brilliant’ plan was, but took the bait and asked anyways.

> “Enlighten me.”

> “By hitting one of the college bars and getting ourselves wasted!”

> Even though Sam had been expecting such a response from his brother, it still amazed him at how utterly insensitive Dean was to the situation. Sam was all for hitting a bar a few times a week and getting a drink or two, but getting completely wasted at the beginning of a case, not to mention right before they went out to investigate, was completely out of the question. “Dude!” He said indignantly, “what the hell? I know you want to get laid, but could it happen after we figure out the whole mysterious-drowning thing?”

> “I was just kidding!” Dean defended, taking his hands off the steering wheel to put them palms up in a submissive gesture. His foot was still on the accelerator, the Impala veering towards the centre line in a steady sideways motion. Sam watched warily, hazel eyes glued to the opposite side of the road. Dean didn’t seem to even notice the drifting as he put his hands back on the wheel, correcting the cars trajectory with the ease that could only come from someone who had spent almost his entire life in a vehicle—which of course both Dean and Sam had.

> “Sure you were,” Sam’s scoff was purely a display of brotherly teasing; there was no heat behind the words. They drove the rest of the way in relative silence—besides the blaring Metallica, the drumming of Dean’s large hands on the steering wheel, and his voice singing almost on-key along with the lyrics—and reached the motel just as the sun set, deep ruby glow, over the roof. The car roared to a halt, taking one and a half spots in front of the door marked with a tarnished brass 4.

***

> They waited till midnight before packing gear into two canvas messenger bags, scouring their trunk for anything they thought might come in handy; though to be honest neither brother knew what to expect. Which was why, on the beach, they found themselves packing one of almost every tool they had, down to rock-salt shotguns and brass blades. (Though they both were well aware that it was most definitely not a Rakshasa drowning these people.) The beach was almost completely empty, no one paid attention to the boys as they walked along the shoreline, the waves lapping up and wetting the toes of their shoes.

> “Aw shit.” Sam looked down at his sneakers, water seeping in through the canvas as his feet sank into the wet sand with every step. For once he found himself wishing that he’d invested in a pair of boots like Dean’s nice waterproof ones, when they’d been back at that army surplus store in Boulder last month. He kicked his foot a bit, listening to the water already sloshing around in the shoe, heel digging deeper into the wet sand.

> “Whoa, hold up Sammy.” Sam looked over his shoulder; his brother was bending over, scooping something half hidden by sand in the deep indent of his footprint up in his hand. He was dusting off the surface of an abalone pendant with the calloused pad of his thumb. Dean turned it over in his palm when most of the grit was removed, squinting at the markings carved into the shell. “Isn’t that a Celtic rune?”

> Sam took the pendant in his own hand; it looked completely dwarfed in his huge palm. The small etching was the shape of an angular infinity sign, shallowly engraved into the brittle shell. “Yeah, the one for transformation. Dates back easily to the 700’s.” Dean considered this for a moment, staring at the multicoloured shell.

> “I think you’re right geek-boy. I bet it fell right off the neck of some new age-y chick. Or it could have something to do with our case. People drowning, then this rune showing up? Seems a bit fishy to me.” At the time, Dean had no idea that his statement had been a bad pun.

***

> Morning light filtered in through the window between the two beds, shining a golden glow over the tasteless furnishings of the motel room. Dean groaned, face pressed into his dusty smelling pillow, muffling the sound. He heard rustling of sheets from the other bed, the telltale sign that Sam had woken up.

> “Oh _fuck_.”

> Dean rolled onto his side and looked at his brother. At first he had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn’t sleeping still, viciously scouring them with his fingertips before looking again. Sam watched back with the most helpless expression Dean had ever seen on his face. “Dean… I think we were right about the rune.”

> Taking in the sight of his brother, sporting a full on fish tail complete with scales and all, in place of his legs; Dean couldn’t help but agree.


	2. Chapter 2 - A Slight Inconvenience

  
Author's notes: And into the second chapter; finally getting into the main part of the story! And also the start of the wincesty overtones, teehee.  


* * *

> “So we have a bit of a problem.” Sam was seated uncomfortably in the bathtub, the end of his green-scaled tail hanging over the edge, the fin waving freely in the air. He watched small rivulets of water slid down the shimmering scales, dripping off the end and forming a puddle on the ground beside his brother.

> “A bit of a problem? You’re a fucking fish, Sam!” Dean exclaimed, scrubbing his hand through his short hair in exasperation. He had already searched all the books they owned, called Bobby and Ellen, and read every damn page in Dad’s journal twice. Not once was there even a mention of merfolk, nevertheless the transformation into one. Sam pouted, lower lip stuck out and puppy-dog eyes turned on to full intensity. Dean’s anger instantly ebbed; he’d never built up immunity to that look, no matter how much he’d tried. “Okay, okay. We need to stay calm about this. Maybe you’ll just change back by yourself, right?” His voice was overly hopeful, verging ever-so-slightly onto the pathetic scale.

> “But we don’t have time to wait, Dean! We’re on a case, remember? More people could drown while we sit here twiddling our thumbs.”

> “It’s not like you can go out in public though Sam! You look like swamp-thing.”

> Sam huffed with the knowledge that his brother was right; there was no way he’d be able to go out in public looking how he did. His neck itched from the gills that he’d noticed there a few hours ago, and his ear fins poked out of his uncombed hair. He shifted his tail, unused to the new muscle groups that he was controlling. The scales caught the light coming through the window above the bathtub and reflected it back, making shining patterns along the walls and ceiling that Sam found himself studying. “What if we dump you in the ocean after dark, you could swim around and sing, or whatever merfolk do, all you want. And at the same time, you could be keeping a look out for our mysterious killer.” Sam looked back at his brother’s face, unnerved by the idea of open water and being so potentially close to the monster.

> “And what if the _monster_ is in the water? Then what? _I’ll_ be the next one to wash up on the shore dead. Or what if I transform back while I’m in the water? I’m a good swimmer Dean, but I’m not _that_ good.”

> “Well suit yourself then. You can stay in the bathtub all day and night so your fishy-ass doesn’t dry out while I go and actually do our job.” Dean stood up, hands on his knees for support, locking his gaze with his brother. Sam sighed, knowing that he’d lost the argument.

***

> As much as he’d wanted to, Dean refrained from going back to the beach that day. He stayed in the room, checking and re-checking all their connections while listening to Sam splash in the bathtub sulkily. He could tell his brother was restless without even his laptop to keep him company, and restless Sam was never a good thing.

> “I feel really cramped Dean.”

> Dean looked up from the bits of gun scattered around him, putting down the greasy cloth he’d been using to clean. “You’ve been sitting in a bathtub for going on 9 hours, of course you’re cramped Sammy.” He replied. The bedsprings whined loudly when he got up and walked over to the bathroom, his hands covered in streaky gun oil. Sam squawked when Dean plunged his hands into the bathtub, wringing them together to clean them of the oil.

> “Do you mind?” he demanded when Dean finished, gills flaring each time he took in a ragged breath. “I don’t want gun-grease floating around in the water with me!” His brother smiled and rolled up the sleeve on his right arm, bunching it above his elbow before reaching back into the water. His fingers caught on the thin chain attached to the plug, and he tugged sharply on it. The water level lowered slowly, and Sam felt like hitting Dean with his tailfin as hard as he could. Though his scales were still wet, covered with a thin layer of mucus to keep them moist, he was already feeling less comfortable. “What are you doing now?” He asked warily.

> “Taking you to the beach. I told you I’m not leaving you to soak in this tub all day. There’s no way I’m doing this whole job by myself.”

*******

> It was an ordeal getting Sam into the car without people seeing his tail. A few times Dean thought their neighbour in room 5 was peeking through his blinds at them, drawing his own (completely wrong) conclusions about what the boys were doing. Dean had wrapped his brother in a sheet from their bed, covering him from head to tailfin with the blue cloth and carrying him out of the room bridal style. The way his head was lolling back, eyes closed, made him look recently dead, and the way Dean kept looking over his shoulders as he laid Sam into the passenger seat of the Impala didn’t help matters. As soon as the doors were closed, and they had left the parking lot, black marks on the pavement from squealing tires left behind them, Sam ripped the sheet off his face. “Was that really necessary?” He asked, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear fin.

> “Do you want an angry mob with pitchforks after you, swamp-thing?” Dean asked as he pulled off the main drag and onto a beach-side road. “Because personally, I don’t want to see my brother become a fillet-o-fish.” Sam watched out the window, at 3:00 am the beach was deserted. Even the most hardcore beach combers had gone home now. Dean parallel parked the Impala beside a street sign reading ‘no parking past 10:00 pm’ and got out. Sam almost forgot about his tail as he opened his own door. “Whoa, hold up fish-face.” Dean had the bunched up sheet in his hands, “I’m still not taking the chance of you being seen.” He threw the sheet back over his brother, who only squabbled for a moment before surrendering and letting Dean pick his (considerably heavy) deadweight up in his arms.

*******

> Sam splashed around in the ocean water. It was cold at first; the salty water biting into his bare chest with each wave that washed over him, but eventually his body had adjusted. Dean sat at the end of the pier, watching his brother frolicking in the waves, submerging for short periods of time to test out his gills. “This isn’t actually so bad,” Sam said as he popped out of the water for the umpteenth time, shaking his head like a wet dog so his hair would fluff away from his face.

> Dean raised his hand against the spray that Sam’s hair had sent off, keeping the driblets from hitting him in the face. “So glad you’re having fun, Sammy.” He said sarcastically, laying back on the pier and looking up at the stars that were barely visible through the haze of both normal and light pollution. His brother’s splashing stopped almost instantly, and Dean started to sit up.

> “Hey Dean…” Sam sounded worried, and was looking out into the open water. “Do you see—“ Dean sat bolt upright, his brother was gone. Panic beat through his veins, adrenaline pumping loudly. Had Sammy not sounded so anxious he would think this was all a bad practical joke, that Sam was just using his gills to bug his brother, but Sam had sounded afraid. And Dean had been around Sam long enough to tell when fear was genuine in his brothers voice.

> “Sam?” He called out, already shrugging out of his leather jacket. There was no answer. “ **Sammy?!** ” He yelled again, louder and more desperate this time. Still no answer. Without a moments hesitation Dean was out of his boots and diving into the depths.


End file.
